


for our sleeping girls

by dollsome



Series: Sansa, Tyrion, and Shae [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-3x08. Shae and Sansa, the morning after the wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for our sleeping girls

_We wade through blood_  
 _for our sleeping girls._  
 _We have daggers for eyes._  
(Carol Ann Duffy, “Queen Herod”)  
  
 _“Watch out for her.”_  
 _“I always do.”_  
(3.01)  
  
  
  
Before she takes the sheets to be washed, Shae finds an empty corner, pulls her knife out, and cuts the inner side of her leg. Her arm would be too noticeable in this stupid dress. The cut is deep enough to bleed a bit but not do much else. She’s felt worse.  
  
She lets the blood drip into her hand and then smears it onto the sheet.  
  
 _You’re lucky I love you,_  she thinks to one of them. She is not sure which one.  
  
  
+  
  
  
When Shae comes back to make the bed and help Sansa dress, Tyrion is gone. Shae is glad of it. She doesn’t like being in a room with the two of them at the same time. Tyrion is one half of her life and Sansa is the other. They do not belong together.  
  
Sansa is in bed again even though the sheets have been taken away. She has a blanket over her lap. She stares down at her hands.  
  
“Would you like to dress?” Shae asks.  
  
“Not yet.”  
  
“Do you want me to leave?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Shae comes closer. “Do you want me to make the bed?”  
  
Sansa shakes her head. Shae dumps the sheets at the foot of the bed and sits down. Fuck anyone who might come in and call her lazy, she decides. She would like it if Tyrion came in and found them chatting like sisters.  _I am hers more than I’m yours,_  Shae would like to tell him.  _She needs me._  
  
Still, some piece of her heart is glad of the clean white sheets and the look on his face. That tired  _what did you expect?_  smile, like he swore her a vow and he’s keeping it. She would like to hate him. It would be smarter.  
  
“He didn’t make me,” Sansa says.  
  
Shae abandons her thoughts. “I know.”  
  
Sansa looks up, surprised. “How did you—?”  
  
“The sheets. No blood.”  
  
“Oh.” Sansa looks confused. Maybe she still does not know everything that she should about a wedding night. Maybe she is just too exhausted to think.  
  
Shae feels a surge of love for her. A surge of anger at her captors. “He ever tries to put his cock anywhere you don’t want it, I will cut it off.”  
  
Sansa glares at her. The girl always expects spies to come out of the walls and behead them both. “You can’t just say things like that.”  
  
“A Lannister’s not the only one who can make threats.” Sansa keeps glaring. Shae adds more gently, “I know you won’t tell.”  
  
There. That softens her.  
  
“He was very noble,” Sansa says after a moment. Her voice is bitter. It always gets bitter when she tries to sound unmoved. “In his way. Not making me. He promised – he promised he’ll never touch me until I want him to.”  
  
 _Until_. Of course there is an  _until_. Of course he wants this lovely spotless girl. Again, Shae pictures her naked with him. Meek and scared and dutiful. All the things Shae is not.  
  
Shae thinks he could melt her eventually. His hands and tongue know how to make a woman feel sacred even when she is a common whore. Imagine what he’d do to a real lady.  
  
“Do you think I should try to love him?” Sansa asks.  
  
The words are ladylike but her voice is full of spite. Shae likes that. She is proud of Sansa in these moments. The girl is strong, and learning.  
  
And so she does not give the selfish answer. “I think there are harder men to love.”  
  
“That’s what Margaery said.” Sansa sounds disappointed. No one will tell her what she wants to hear.  
  
So Shae decides to. She does not know if it’s for Sansa or to hurt him. She hopes it is for Sansa. “But you owe him nothing. Don’t ever let him make you feel like you do.”  
  
Sansa laughs shortly. An  _I don’t believe you_  laugh. “I’m his now.”  
  
“You are yours.” Shae reaches across the short distance between them and tilts Sansa’s chin up with her fingers. “Remember that always. No matter how hard the world tries to make you forget.”  
  
Sansa considers the words, staring into Shae’s eyes. Then she nods.  
  
“Get up,” Shae says. She tickles Sansa’s chin. “I’ll brush your hair.”  
  
Sansa gives her a tired smile and obeys. It always surprises Shae how tall she has gotten. What happened to the scared and hurting child she met months ago? She stands like a woman now. This must be how mothers feel.  
  
She wonders if Tyrion would think her capable of such feelings. Selfish, whining, ungrateful Shae, always overreacting, pitching fits until her little lion buys her all of Westeros to quiet her. Shae the funny whore.  
  
“Are you all right?” Sansa asks. She looks at Shae like she is trying to catch a glimpse of something that won’t stay still long enough.  
  
Shae smiles and puts her hands on Sansa’s shoulders. She steers her to the vanity.  
  
“When am I not?” she says.  
  
  
+  
  
  
That night she dresses Sansa for supper with her lord husband. Sansa does not talk much. Instead she considers her own reflection. Practices putting on her own face. She would make a good whore, Shae thinks sometimes.  
  
There’s a knock on the door.  
  
“You may go,” Sansa tells her.  
  
Shae nods and squeezes her shoulder. Sansa lifts her own hand to put on top of Shae’s. Their fingers only meet for a second before Shae goes.  
  
Tyrion enters, sober tonight. Looking as handsome as he can. He made an effort. Shae can tell.  
  
“Shae,” he greets her cordially.  
  
“My lord,” she answers, demure. When she reaches the doorframe, she mutters, “If you hurt that girl, I will make you fucking suffer.”  
  
“And I would deserve it,” Tyrion whispers back, bowing his head. Always so gallant.  
  
He brushes her fingers with his as she passes. She closes her eyes.  
  
“How are you this evening, Lady Sansa?” she hears Tyrion ask in that voice he uses when he wants someone to like him. Or feel guilty for not liking him.  
  
“Very well, my lord,” Sansa responds, a perfect lady. Shae glances back to see Tyrion offering his hand to Sansa. Sansa clasps it dutifully for the polite amount of time. She is the one to let go. Shae envies her.  
  
She closes the door and drowns their dull talk.


End file.
